“I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?”
_Merchant of Venice._
Such was the substance of the communication that Doctor McBrain now made
to his friend, Tom Dunscomb. The latter had listened with an interest he
did not care to betray, and when the other was done he gaily cried—
“I’ll tell the widow Updyke of you, Ned!”
“She knows the whole story already, and is very anxious lest you should
have left town, to go to the Rockland circuit, where she has been told
you have an important case to try.”
“The cause goes over on account of the opposite counsel’s being in the
court of appeals. Ah’s me! I have no pleasure in managing a cause since
this Code of Procedure has innovated on all our comfortable and
venerable modes of doing business. I believe I shall close up my
affairs, and retire, as soon as I can bring all my old cases to a
termination.”
“If you _can_ bring those old cases to a termination, you will be the
first lawyer who ever did.”
“Yes, it is true, Ned,” answered Dunscomb, coolly taking a pinch of
snuff, “you doctors _have_ the advantage of us, in this behalf; _your
cases_ certainly do not last for ever.”
“Enough of this, Tom—you will go to Biberry, I take it for granted?”
“You have forgotten the fee. Under the new code, compensation is a
matter of previous agreement.”
“You shall have a pleasant excursion, over good roads, in the month of
May, in an easy carriage, and drawn by a pair of as spirited horses as
ever trotted on the Third Avenue.”
“The animals you have just purchased in honour of Mrs. Updyke that
is—Mrs. McBrain that is to be—” touching tho bell, and adding to the
very respectable black who immediately answered the summons, “Tell
Master Jack and Miss Sarah I wish to see them. So, Ned, you have let the
widow know all about it, and she does not pout or look distrustful—that
is a good symptom, at least.”
“I would not marry a jealous woman, if I never had a wife!”
“Then you will never marry at all. Why, Dr. McBrain, it is in the nature
of woman to be distrustful—to be jealous—to fancy things that are merely
figments of the brain.”
“You know nothing about them, and would be wisest to be silent—but here
are the young people already, to ask your pleasure.”
“Sarah, my dear,” resumed the uncle in a kind and affectionate tone of
voice, one that the old bachelor almost universally held towards that
particular relative, “I must give you a little trouble. Go into my room,
child, and put up, in my smallest travelling bag, a clean shirt, a
handkerchief or two, three or four collars, and a change all round, for
a short expedition into the country.”
“Country! Do you quit us to-day, sir?”
“Within an hour, at latest,” looking at his watch. “If we leave the door
at ten, we can reach Biberry before the inquest reassembles. You told
those capital beasts of yours, Ned, to come here?”
“I told Stephen to give them a hint to that effect. You may rely on
their punctuality.”
“Jack, you had better be of our party. I go on some legal business of
importance, and it may be well for you to go along, in order to pick up
an idea, or two.”
“And why not Michael also, sir? He has as much need of ideas as I have
myself.”
A pretty general laugh succeeded, though Sarah, who was just quitting
the room, did not join in it. She rather looked grave, as well as a
little anxiously towards the last-named neophyte of the law.
“Shall we want any books, sir?” demanded the nephew.
“Why, yes—we will take the Code of Procedure. One can no more move
without _that_, just now, than he can travel in some countries without a
passport. Yes, put up the code, Jack, and we’ll pick it to pieces as we
trot along.”
“There is little need of that, sir, if what they say be true. I hear,
from all quarters, that it is doing that for itself, on a gallop.”
“Shame on thee, lad—I have half a mind to banish thee to Philadelphia!
But put up the code; thy joke can’t be worse than that joke. As for
Michael, he can accompany us if he wish it; but you must both be ready
by ten. At ten, precisely, we quit my door, in the chariot of Phœbus,
eh, Ned?”
“Call it what you please, so you do but go. Be active, young gentlemen,
for we have no time to throw away. The jury meet again at two, and we
have several hours of road before us. I will run round and look at my
slate, and be here by the time you are ready.”
On this suggestion everybody was set in active motion. John went for his
books, and to fill a small rubber bag for himself; Michael did the same,
and Sarah was busy in her uncle’s room. As for Dunscomb, he made the
necessary disposition of some papers, wrote two or three notes, and held
himself at the command of his friend. This affair was just the sort of
professional business in which he liked to be engaged. Not that he had
any sympathy with crime, for he was strongly averse to all communion
with rogues; but it appeared to him, by the representations of the
doctor, to be a mission of mercy. A solitary, young, unfriended female,
accused, or suspected, of a most heinous crime, and looking around for a
protector and an adviser, was an object too interesting for a man of his
temperament to overlook, under the appeal that had been made. Still he
was not the dupe of his feelings. All his coolness, sagacity, knowledge
of human nature, and professional attainments, were just as active in
him as they ever had been in his life. Two things he understood well:
that we are much too often deceived by outward signs, mistaking
character by means of a fair exterior, and studied words, and that
neither youth, beauty, sex, nor personal graces were infallible
preventives of the worst offences, on the one hand; and that, on the
other, men nurture distrust, and suspicion, often, until it grows too
large to be concealed, by means of their own propensity to feed the
imagination and to exaggerate. Against these two weaknesses he was now
resolved to arm himself; and when the whole party drove from the door,
our counsellor was as clear-headed and impartial, according to his own
notion of the matter, as if he were a judge.
By this time the young men had obtained a general notion of the business
they were on, and the very first subject that was started, on quitting
the door, was in a question put by John Wilmeter, in continuation of a
discussion that had been commenced between himself and his friend.
“Mike and I have a little difference of opinion, on a point connected
with this matter, which I could wish you to settle for us, as an
arbiter. On the supposition that you find reason to believe that this
young woman has really committed these horrible crimes, what would be
your duty in the case—to continue to befriend her, and advise her, and
use your experience and talents in order to shield her against the
penalties of the law, or to abandon her at once?”
“In plain English, Jack, you and your brother student wish to know
whether I am to act as a palladium, or as a runagate, in this affair. As
neophytes in your craft, it may be well to suggest to you, in the first
place, that I have not yet been fee’d. I never knew a lawyer’s
conscience trouble him about questions in casuistry, until he had
received something down.”
“But you can suppose that something paid, in this case, sir, and then
answer our question.”
“This is just the case in which I can suppose nothing of the sort. Had
McBrain given me to understand I was to meet a client, with a well-lined
purse, who was accused of arson and murder, I would have seen him
married to two women, at the same time, before I would have budged. It’s
the want of a fee that takes me out of town, this morning.”
“And the same want, I trust, sir, will stimulate you to solve our
difficulty.”
The uncle laughed, and nodded his head, much as if he would say, “Pretty
well for _you_;” then he gave a thought to the point in professional
ethics that had started up between his two students.
“This is a very old question with the profession, gentlemen,” Dunscomb
answered, a little more gravely. “You will find men who maintain that
the lawyer has, morally, a right to do whatever his client would do;
that he puts himself in the place of the man he defends, and is expected
to do everything precisely as if he were the accused party himself. I
rather think that some vague notion, quite as loose as this, prevails
pretty generally among what one may call the minor moralists of the
profession.”
“I confess, sir, that I have been given to understand that some such
rule _ought_ to govern our conduct,” said Michael Millington, who had
been in Dunscomb’s office only for the last six months.
“Then you have been very loosely and badly instructed in the duties of
an advocate, Mr. Michael. A more pernicious doctrine was never broached,
or one better suited to make men scoundrels. Let a young man begin
practice with such notions, and two or three thieves for clients will
prepare him to commit petit larceny, and a case or two of perjury would
render him an exquisite at an affidavit. No, my boys, here is your rule
in this matter: an advocate has a _right_ to do whatever his client has
a _right_ to do—not what his client _would_ do.”
“Surely, sir, an advocate is justified in telling his client to plead
not guilty, though guilty; and in aiding him to persuade a jury to
acquit him, though satisfied himself he ought to be convicted!”
“You have got hold of the great point in the case, Jack, and one on
which something may be said on both sides. The law is so indulgent, as
to permit an accused who has formally pleaded ‘guilty,’ thus making a
distinct admission of his crime, to withdraw that plea, and put in
another of ‘not guilty.’ Now, had the same person made a similar
admission _out_ of court, and under circumstances that put threats or
promises out of the question, the law would have accepted _that_
admission as the best possible evidence of his guilt. It is evident,
therefore, that an understanding exists, to which the justice of the
country is a party, that a man, though guilty, shall get himself out of
the scrape, if he can do so by legal means. No more importance is
attached to the ‘not guilty,’ than to the ‘not at home’ to a visitor; it
being understood, by general convention, that neither means anything.
Some persons are so squeamish, as to cause their servants to say ‘they
are engaged,’ by way of not telling a lie; but a lie consists in the
intentional deception, and ‘not in’ and ‘not guilty’ mean no more, in
the one case, than ‘you can’t see my master,’ and in the other, than
‘I’ll run the chances of a trial.’”
“After all, sir, this is going pretty near the wind, in the way of
morals.”
“It certainly is. The Christian man who has committed a crime, ought not
to attempt to deny it to his country, as he certainly cannot to his God.
Yet, nine hundred and ninety-nine in a thousand of the most strait-laced
Christians in the community would so deny their guilt, if arraigned. We
must not tax poor human nature too heavily, though I think the common
law contains many things, originating in a jealousy of hereditary power,
that it is great folly for us to preserve. But, while we are thus
settling principles, we forget facts. You have told me nothing of your
client, Ned.”
“What would you wish to know?”
“You called her young, I remember; what may be her precise age?”
“That is more than I know; somewhere between sixteen and
five-and-twenty.”
“Five-and-twenty! Is she as old as that?”
“I rather think not; but I have been thinking much of her this morning,
and I really do not remember to have seen another human being who is so
difficult to describe.”
“She has eyes, of course?”
“Two—and very expressive they are; though, sworn, I could not tell their
colour.”
“And hair?”
“In very great profusion; so much of it, and so very fine and shining,
that it was the first thing about her person which I observed. But I
have not the least notion of its colour.”
“Was it red?”
“No; nor yellow, nor golden, nor black, nor brown,—and yet a little of
all blended together, I should say.”
“Ned, I’ll tell the Widow Updyke of thee, thou rogue!”
“Tell her, and welcome. She has asked me all these questions herself,
this very morning.”
“Oh, she has, has she? Umph! Woman never changes her nature. You cannot
say anything about the eyes, beyond the fact of their being very
expressive?”
“And pleasing; more than that, even—engaging; winning, is a better
term.”
“Ned, you dog, you have never told the widow one-half!”
“Every syllable. I even went farther, and declared I had never beheld a
countenance that, in so short an interview, made so deep an impression
on me. If I were not to see this young woman again, I should never
forget the expression of her face—so spirited, so sad, so gentle, so
feminine, and so very intelligent. It seemed to me to be what I should
call an illuminated countenance.”
“Handsome?”
“Not unusually so, among our sweet American girls, except through the
expression. That was really wonderful; though, you will remember, I saw
her under very peculiar circumstances.”
“Oh, exceedingly peculiar. Dear old soul; what a thump she has given
him! How were her mouth and her teeth?—complexion, stature, figure, and
smile?”
“I can tell you little of all these. Her teeth are fine; for she gave me
a faint smile, such as a lady is apt to give a man in quitting him, and
I saw just enough of the teeth to know that they are exceedingly fine.
You smile, young gentlemen; but _you_ may have a care for your hearts,
in good truth; for if this strange girl interests either of you one-half
as much as she has interested me, she will be either Mrs. John Wilmeter,
or Mrs. Michael Millington, within a twelvemonth.”
Michael looked very sure that she would never fill the last situation,
which was already bespoke for Miss Sarah Wilmeter; and as for Jack, he
laughed outright.
“We’ll tell Mrs. Updyke of him, when we get back, and break off that
affair, at least,” cried the uncle, winking at the nephew, but in a way
his friend should see him; “then there will be one marriage the less in
the world.”
“But is she a lady, doctor?” demanded John, after a short pause. “My
wife must have some trifling claims in that way, I can assure you.”
“As for family, education, association and fortune, I can say nothing,—I
know nothing. Yet will I take upon myself to say she _is_ a lady,—and
that, in the strict signification of the term.”
“You are not serious now, Ned!” exclaimed the counsellor, quickly. “Not
a _bony fide_, as some of our gentlemen have it? You cannot mean
_exactly_ what you say.”
“I do, though; and that literally.”
“And she suspected of arson and murder! Where are her connections and
friends,—those who made her a lady? Why is she there alone, and, as you
say, unfriended?”
“So it seemed to me. You might as well ask me why she is there, at all.
I know nothing of all this. I heard plenty of reasons in the street, why
she ought to be distrusted,—nay, convicted; for the feeling against her
had got to be intense, before I left Biberry; but no one could tell me
whence she came, or why she was there.”
“Did you learn her name?”
“Yes; that was in every mouth, and I could not help hearing it. She was
called Mary Monson by the people of Biberry—but I much doubt if that be
her real name.”
“So, your angel in disguise will have to be tried under an ‘alias!’ That
is not much in her favour, Ned. I shall ask no more questions, but wait
patiently to see and judge for myself.”
The young men put a few more interrogatories, which were civilly
answered, and then the subject was dropped. Well it has been said that
“God made the country; man made the town.” No one feels this more than
he who has been shut up between walls of brick and stone for many
months, on his first escape into the open, unfettered fields and winding
pleasant roads. Thus was it now with Dunscomb. He had not been out of
town since the previous summer, and great was his delight at smelling
the fragrance of the orchards, and feasting his eyes on their beauties.
All the other charms of the season came in aid of these, and when the
carriage drove into the long, broad, and we might almost say single
street of Biberry, Dunscomb in particular was in a most tranquil and
pleasant state of mind. He had come out to assist a friendless woman,
cheerfully and without a thought of the sacrifice, either as to time or
money, though in reflecting on all the circumstances he began to have
his doubts of the wisdom of the step he had taken. Nevertheless, he
preserved his native calmness of manner, and coolness of head.
Biberry was found to be in a state of high excitement. There were at
least a dozen physicians collected there, all from the county, and five
or six reporters had come from town. Rumours of all sorts were afloat,
and Mary Monson was a name in every person’s mouth. She had not been
arrested, however, it having been deemed premature for that; but she was
vigilantly watched, and two large trunks of which she was the mistress,
as well as an oilskin-covered box of some size, if not absolutely
seized, were so placed that their owner had no access to them. This
state of things, however, did not seem to give the suspected girl any
uneasiness; she was content with what a carpet-bag contained, and with
which she said she was comfortable. It was a question with the wiseacres
whether she knew that she was suspected or not.
Had Dunscomb yielded to McBrain’s solicitations, he would have gone at
once to the house in which Mary Monson was now lodged, but he preferred
adopting a different course. He thought it the most prudent to be a
looker-on, until after the next examination, which was now close at
hand. Wary by long habit, and cool by temperament, he was disposed to
observe the state of things before he committed himself. The presence of
the reporters annoyed him; not that he stood in any dread of the low
tyranny that is so apt to characterize this class of men, for no member
of the bar had held them, and the puny efforts of many among them to
build up and take away professional character, in greater contempt than
he had done; but he disliked to have his name mixed up with a cause of
this magnitude, unless he had made up his mind to go through with it. In
this temper, then, no communication was held with Mary Monson, until
they met, at the hour appointed for the inquest, in the court-house.
The room was crowded, at least twice as many having collected on this
occasion as had got together on the sudden call of the previous
examination. Dunscomb observed that the coroner looked grave, like a man
who felt he had important business on his hands, while a stern
expectation was the expression common to nearly all the others present.
He was an utter stranger, himself, even by sight, to every being
present, his own party and two or three of the reporters excepted. These
last no sooner observed him, however, than out came their little
note-books, and the gold pens were at work, scribbling something. It was
probably a sentence to say, “we observed among the crowd Thomas
Dunscomb, Esquire, the well-known counsel _from the city_;” but Dunscomb
cared very little for such vulgarisms, and continued passive.
As soon as the inquest was organized, the coroner directed a physician
of the neighbourhood to be put on the stand. It had gone forth that a
“city doctor” had intimated that neither of the skeletons was that of
Peter Goodwin, and there was a common wish to confront him with a high
country authority. It was while the medical man now in request was sent
for, that McBrain pointed out to Dunscomb the person of Mary Monson. She
sat in a corner different from that she had occupied the day before,
seemingly for the same purpose, or that of being alone. Alone she was
not, strictly, however; a respectable-looking female, of middle age,
being at her side. This was a Mrs. Jones, the wife of a clergyman, who
had charitably offered the suspected young stranger a home under her own
roof, pending the investigation. It was thought, generally, that Mary
Monson had but very vague notions of the distrust that rested on her, it
being a part of the plan of those who were exercising all their wits to
detect the criminal, that she was first to learn this fact in open
court, and under circumstances likely to elicit some proofs of guilt.
When Dunscomb learned this artifice, he saw how ungenerous and unmanly
it was, readily imagined a dozen signs of weakness that a female might
exhibit in such a strait, that had no real connection with crime, and
felt a strong disposition to seek an interview, and put the suspected
party on her guard. It was too late for this, however, just then; and he
contented himself, for the moment, with studying such signs of character
and consciousness as his native sagacity and long experience enabled him
to detect.
Although nothing could be more simple or unpretending than the attire of
Mary Monson, it was clearly that of a lady. Everything about her denoted
that station, or origin; though everything about her, as Dunscomb
fancied, also denoted a desire to bring herself down, as nearly as
possible, to the level of those around her, most probably that she might
not attract particular attention. Our lawyer did not exactly like this
slight proof of management, and wished it were not so apparent. He could
see the hands, feet, figure, hair, and general air of the female he was
so strangely called on to make the subject of his investigations, but he
could not yet see her face. The last was again covered with a cambric
handkerchief, the hand which held it being ungloved. It was a pretty
little American hand; white, well-proportioned, and delicate. It was
clear, that neither its proportions nor its colour had been changed by
uses unsuited to its owner’s sex or years. But it had no ring, in this
age of be-jewelled fingers. It was the left hand, moreover, and the
fourth finger, like all the rest, had no ornament, or sign of matrimony.
He inferred from this, that the stranger was unmarried; one of the last
things that a wife usually lays aside being her wedding-ring. The foot
corresponded with the hand, and was decidedly the smallest, best-formed,
and best-decorated foot in Biberry. John Wilmeter thought it the
prettiest he had ever seen. It was not studiously exhibited, however,
but rested naturally and gracefully in its proper place. The figure
generally, so far as a capacious shawl would allow of its being seen,
was pleasing, graceful, and a little remarkable for accuracy of
proportions, as well as of attire.
Once or twice Mrs. Jones spoke to her companion; and it was when
answering some question thus put, that Dunscomb first got a glimpse of
his intended client’s face. The handkerchief was partly removed, and
remained so long enough to enable him to make a few brief observations.
It was then that he felt the perfect justice of his friend’s
description. It was an indescribable countenance, in all things but its
effect; which was quite as marked on the lawyer, as it had been on the
physician. But the arrival of Dr. Coe put an end to these observations,
and drew all eyes on that individual, who was immediately sworn. The
customary preliminary questions were put to this witness, respecting his
profession, length of practice, residence, &c., when the examination
turned more on the matter immediately under investigation.
“You see those objects on the table, doctor?” said the coroner. “What do
you say they are?”
“_Ossa hominum_; human bones, much defaced and charred by heat.”
“Do you find any proof about them of violence committed, beyond the
damage done by fire?”
“Certainly. There is the _os frontis_ of each fractured by a blow; a
common blow, as I should judge.”
“What do you mean, sir, by a common blow? An accidental, or an
intentional blow?”
“By common blow, I mean that one blow did the damage to both _cranys_.”
“_Crany?_—how do you spell that word, doctor? Common folks get put out
by foreign tongues.”
“Cranys, in the plural, sir. We say cran_ium_, for _one_ skull, and
crany, for two.”
“I wonder what he would say for numskull?” whispered John to Michael.
“Yes, sir; I understand you, now. I trust the reporters will get it
right.”
“Oh! they never make any mistakes, especially in legal proceedings,”
quietly remarked Mr. Dunscomb to the doctor. “In matters of law and the
constitution, they are of proof! Talk of letters on the constitution!
What are equal to those that come to us, _hibernally_, as one may say,
from Washington?”
“Hibernially would be the better word,” answered McBrain, in the same
under tone.
“You ought to know; your grandfather was an Irishman, Ned. But listen to
this examination.”
“And now, Dr. Coe, have the goodness to look at those skeletons,”
resumed the coroner, “and tell us whether they belong to man, woman, or
child. Whether they are the remains of adults, or of children.”
“Of adults, certainly. On that point, sir, I conceive there can be no
doubt.”
“And as to the sex?”
“I should think that is equally clear. I have no doubt that one are the
remains of Peter Goodwin, and the other those of his wife. Science can
distinguish between the sexes, in ordinary cases, I allow; but this is a
case in which science is at fault, for want of facts; and taking all the
known circumstances into consideration, I have no hesitation in saying
that, according to my best judgment, those are the remains of the
missing man and woman—man and wife.”
“Am I to understand that you recognize the particular skeletons by any
outward, visible proofs?”
“Yes; there is the stature. Both of the deceased were well known to me;
and I should say, that making the usual allowance for the absence of the
_musculi_, the _pellis_, and other known substances——
“Doctor, would it be just as agreeable to you to use the common
dialect?” demanded a shrewd-looking farmer, one of the jury, who
appeared equally amused and vexed at this display of learning.
“Certainly, sir—certainly, Mr. Blore; _musculi_ means muscles, and
_pellis_ is the skin. Abstract the muscles and skin, and the other
intermediate substances, from the bones, and the apparent stature would
be reduced, as a matter of course. Making those allowances, I see in
those skeletons the remains of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin. Of the fact, I
entertain no manner of doubt.”
As Dr. Coe was very sincere in what he said, he expressed himself
somewhat earnestly. A great many eyes were turned triumphantly towards
the stranger who had presumed to intimate that the bones of both the
remains were those of women, when everybody in and about Biberry knew
Peter Goodwin so well, and knew that his wife, if anything, was the
taller of the two. No one in all that crowd doubted as to the fact,
except McBrain and his friend; and the last doubted altogether on the
faith of the doctor’s science. He had never known him mistaken, though
often examined in court, and was aware that the bar considered him one
of the safest and surest witnesses they could employ in all cases of
controverted facts.
Dr. Coe’s examination proceeded.
“Have you a direct knowledge of any of the circumstances connected with
this fire?” demanded the coroner.
“A little, perhaps. I was called to visit a patient about midnight, and
was obliged to pass directly before the door of Goodwin’s house. The
jury knows that it stood on a retired road, and that one would not be
likely to meet with any person travelling it, so early in the morning. I
did pass, however, two men, who were walking very fast, and in the
direction of Goodwin’s. I could not see their faces, nor did I know them
by their figures and movements. As I see everybody, and know almost
everybody, hereabouts, I concluded they were strangers. About four, I
was on my return along the same road, and as my sulky rose to the top of
Windy Hill, I got a view of Goodwin’s house. The flames were just
streaming out of the east end of the roof, and the little wing on that
end of the building, in which the old folks slept, was in a bright
blaze. The other end was not much injured; and I saw at an upper window
the figure of a female—she resembled, as well as I could judge by that
light, and at that distance, the young lady now present, and who is said
to have occupied the chamber under the roof, in the old house, for some
time past; though I can’t say I have ever seen her there, unless I saw
her then, under the circumstances mentioned. The old people could not
have been as ailing this spring as was common with them, as I do not
remember to have been stopped by them once. They never were in the habit
of sending for the doctor, but seldom let me go past the door, without
calling me in.”
“Did you see any one beside the figure of the female at the window?”
“Yes. There were two men beneath that window, and they appeared to me to
be speaking to, or holding some sort of communication with, the female.
I saw gestures, and I saw one or two articles thrown out of the window.
My view was only for a minute; and when I reached the house, a
considerable crowd had collected, and I had no opportunity to observe,
particularly in a scene of such confusion.”
“Was the female still at the upper window, when you reached the house?”
“No. I saw the lady now present standing near the burning building, and
held by a man—Peter Davidson, I think it was—who told me she wanted to
rush into the house to look for the old folks.”
“Did you see any efforts of that sort in her?”
“Certainly. She struggled to get away from Peter, and acted like a
person who wished to rush into the burning building.”
“Were the struggles natural—or might they not have been affected?”
“They might. If it was acting, it was _good_ acting. I have seen as
good, however, in my life.”
The doctor had a meaning manner, that said more than his words. He spoke
very low—so low as not to be audible to those who sat in the farther
parts of the room; which will explain the perfect indifference to his
testimony, that was manifested by the subject of his remarks. An
impression, however, was made on the jury, which was composed of men
much disposed to push distrust to demonstration.
The coroner now thought it time to spring the principal mine, which had
been carefully preparing during the recess in the investigation; and he
ordered “Mary Monson” to be called—a witness who had been regularly
summoned to attend, among the crowd of persons that had received similar
notices.